A Rose By Any Other Name
by ClassicCeleste
Summary: Concerning what I believe to be the true events leading up to Robert's Rebellion. Rhaegar x Lyanna. WARNING: Unfinished.
1. Chapter 1

**So this is something I've been sitting on for a while. I wrote it about a year ago and just now found it. It was originally meant to be a oneshot, but your average oneshot isn't some-odd thousand words. So this is really more of a novella that I broke up into healthy-sized chunks. Enjoy, with the warning that this **_**is**_** unfinished and will probably stay that way.**

Rhaegar Targaryen was a proud man, an honorable, scholarly man. He was esteemed in battle, and respected in Westeros. Many a man thought that he would be the best king to ever grace the Iron Throne.

But many a man before Rhaegar had lost his wits when confronted with utmost beauty.

The first time the Prince of Dragonstone truly saw Lyanna Stark was at Harrenhal's Tourney. As he and the other competitors walked, rode, or ran into the jousting arena to show off their houses and size up competition, he saw her.

When the herald announced "Rhaegar Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone, First of His Name," the crowd at Harrenhal roared with love and loyalty. Rhaegar was intelligent enough to know that half of them were likely in their cups already, but he took the compliment anyways.

His roar had been louder than that of Robert Baratheon's, who had just walked into the arena, sword in hand. The heir to Storm's End would only be competing in the melee.

So as Rhaegar rode into the arena from behind the pavilion on his black gelding, cloaked in silks of red Targaryen fire, he felt like a better man. The people he stood to inherit loved him, he had been told that he made a most menacing silhouette on his mount, and women all over the realm fell at his feet in ardor.

His own wife, Elia of Dorne was seated high in the center stands, in a place of honor. He looked up at her and made brief eye contact; their marriage was in its early stages, fresh and new even as he had gotten her with a babe on their wedding night. Targaryens were strong, and he needed an heir.

At that time, Rhaegar had felt it as more of a duty than an act of love.

Powerful and comely, her family had more influence over the land than King Aerys had liked, so he combined their houses with a contract of marriage. The rational part of his mind new that Elia was a good match, a great match even, and King Aerys would do anything to strengthen his hold on Westeros.

That same rational part of Rhaegar's brain snapped off as his gelding reared up and he saw _her_.

She leaned precariously over the balcony for a lady, stooping down to tie a favor to the arm of her betrothed, Robert Baratheon. Her dark northern hair framed her face in a way that Rhaegar found so incredibly beautiful that he stopped and stared.

Robert himself was jeering up at Rhaegar, slowly lowering the sword that had been pointed at Rhaegar's horse to keep their distance.

"Watch where you trot, Targaryen!" Robert shouted loudly up at him from the ground. "We wouldn't want the Dragonprince to fall from his horse before the joust has even begun!"

Rhaegar was too fixated by the ice-blue dress she wore that so exactly matched the color of her eyes for politeness. He met eyes that were staring up at him, curiously icy yet warm at the same time.

Rhaegar tore his gaze from that of Lyanna Stark's, and managed to reply to Robert.

"Watch your own step, lord. The last I checked, my horse was bigger than you, and we wouldn't want to leave you a trampled smear in the dirt." Rhaegar threw his cloak aside, revealing armor the color of red dragonfire.

"Though I'm sure your Lady of Winterfell would mourn your loss most beautifully." Rhaegar once again locked his gaze with Lyanna as he spoke the last part.

"You won't be needing to ruffle your crimson feathers on my account, Prince. Baratheon men are stronger even than we look." Robert raised his eyebrows sardonically, trying to prod Rhaegar into reacting poorly.

"Any feathers of mine are those of a dragon's scales; yours are the arrogant boasts of a peacock, which raise and deflate like breeze through ships' sails." Spoke Rhaegar lyrically.

The Prince of Dragonstone heard the herald announce another lordling from behind, and decided that they had created enough of a block in the path that their interruption would surely be noticed if they did not move.

Rhaegar guided his gelding around Robert, giving his not-quite-enemy a nod.

Lyanna Stark still had one hand resting on the edge of the balcony, where she had watched the prince and her betrothed with intent interest.

As he approached her, she curtsied deeply as custom dictated, but he sensed that she was uncomfortable with the movement.

"Prince," she spoke softly, with a voice like windchimes and winter storms all in one. "A thousand lucks to you in your joust."

Unlike many of the other ladies at the tourney, Lyanna Stark did not wear gloves to rid her hands of the potential messes. He took her uncovered left hand boldly and brought it to his lips.

A small intake of breath was the only sign that Lyanna had reacted to him at all. When he looked up through the drooping silver-gold locks of his hair to her face, she returned his gaze intensely.

He kissed the back of her hand carefully, reverently, and smiled into it when he felt horseriding calluses on the underside of it.

"You have my thanks, kind Lady Stark. A thousand lucks and more to you as well."

And ignoring the astonished looks of her septa and Robert Baratheon, as well as half the crowd, Rhaegar Targaryen took his lap around the crowded arena to louder cheer than he had heard before.

*break*

It was midmorning, and Rhaegar had already won one of his victories in the joust, defeating Lord Yohn Royce in the first round. He looked around the crowd, searching afterwards, hoping to irrationally see Lady Lyanna in the crowd cheering for him.

The thought was ridiculous, he knew, but her gaze had been so open, so truthful, that he felt a reckless need to prove himself to her. The deep yearning he felt to see her tried to overpower him, but he controlled it and focused on his ruby hilted lance.

When he learned that the melee had started at the same time as the joust and she was like to be watching Robert, he found his wife and father in the crowd and acknowledged them.

Targaryen family loyalty went far back, farther back than his strange infatuation with Lyanna Stark, and Rhaegar was thoughtful enough to know that.

Nothing was worth giving up his family and dishonoring his name, Rhaegar would be good to remember.

At the feast after the other jousters had completed their rounds, Rhaegar found himself seated in between Elia and Aerys, on his father's right hand.

The dinner and feast were nothing if not cordial, but awkward if not pleasant. The food was fine, and the wine kept flowing freely. Many of the men around them were drunk already, and they were only on the third course.

Robert Baratheon had done well in the melee today, his team had advanced into the next round as Rhaegar had.

The Dragonprince was struck with the foolish notion that he hoped the joust and melee were not the same time again. He wanted Lyanna to be able to watch both, knowing that she was likely the only woman in the Kingdom who would pick Robert Baratheon over himself.

Lady Lyanna sat across from her betrothed, watching him slowly drink himself sleepy. She was not stinting on the wine herself, as it was her third cup by his count.

Rhaegar found that the northern woman's ability to hold her liquor was attractive to him, more so than his own wife's light tolerance.

Lyanna was wedged in between her older brother Brandon and her younger brother Eddard. Neither Lord Rickard, nor her septa was present. Benjen, the youngest Stark was seated off to the side, conversing animatedly with another squire. The male family members would be her guard, he realized, along with a few members of her household. Rhaegar found this a stark contrast to his own guard, which was composed of at least fifty men at arms. King Aerys was ever-cautious.

The musicians started up a song, lively and fast-paced, the kind favored for dancing. Rhaegar looked around eagerly, for dancing was one of the things that he had put his mind to and excelled at.

He noticed Lyanna's wine-brightened face light up as well, and her brother Brandon pulled her up to dance as she laughed.

Rhaegar turned to his lady wife sitting at his side. "Would you care to dance, my love?"

Rhaegar propositioned her with his eyes, they hadn't danced since their wedding five moons ago. Elia, knowing how he loved it, obliged.

As he led his wife down to the dancefloor, Rhaegar noticed that Eddard Stark had left the table as well, and now was dancing with the lovely Lady Ashara Dayne. The pair seemed quite comfortable with each other, an unusual occurrence, as Ned was generally the quiet type.

However, as melodious peals of laughter reached his ears, it would appear that his sister was not the quiet type at all.

Brandon spun Lyanna in his arms, and she nearly flew threw the air as they moved, she was so light. The enticing sounds of her laughter made Rhaegar draw Elia into the middle of the dance floor, near to the swirling pair.

As the royals began to dance, Rhaegar tried to make himself concentrate on the woman in his arms, the woman that was bearing his child. He succeeded for the most part, when he put his mind to a subject.

Ignoring Lyanna Stark was soon to be the hardest subject he had ever studied, and it was not made easier when the music changed ten minutes later.

The crowd recognized the tune in which dancers frivolously switched partners, and swarmed to the floor. Rhaegar found himself pressed against Brandon Stark's back as the music drew more to the dance.

Rhaegar prepared himself with a thrill. He knew that being so close to the Stark brothers and their respective partners meant that they would all switch several times. Rhaegar knew that his meant that he would get to dance with beautiful Lyanna.

He felt his heart race and his blood began to burn inside of him. Rhaegar temporarily forgot the face of Elia of Dorne as he danced in the feast hall. He danced like he never had before, and once more he felt the irrational need to please the woman that he had met once, and hardly knew.

The first switch saw Elia to Brandon, Ashara to Rhaegar, and Lyanna to Ned. Rhaegar could not deny that Ashara Dayne was a fine figure of a woman, but he was struck by something haunting in her purple eyes that made him feel eerie.

Ashara was a great dancer however, and as nervous as she seemed around him, Rhaegar managed to get her to crack a small smile as they spun. She moved like water, fluid and soft in his hands, and molded into the more complex moves of the dance like she had a thousand times before.

When the partners switched once again, Rhaegar almost grabbed Lyanna out of Ned's arms in anticipation. However, he managed not to do so, and even kept his face in what he hoped was an inquisitive look.

"We meet again, prince." Lyanna said as Rhaegar placed his hands on her slender waist and twirled her around him.

Rhaegar smiled. "They say when a beautiful woman remembers you, a god is smiling bright: it helps smaller men of smaller deeds sleep through the night."

Lyanna laughed. "I doubt there are many men who would compare my memory to a god's bliss, Prince Rhaegar."

Inside he was burning. His wishes had evolved, and Rhaegar found himself consumed by the urge to touch her.

"My lady," he replied. "I pity the poor beast that craves for your glance from afar, ever wanting, never earning,."

They danced for moments more, twirling gracefully, before Rhaegar chose to break the silence.

"I had heard that you r betrothed did well in the melee today. Is this true?"

Lyanna Stark blushed, and Rhaegar felt a strange satisfaction that she was not as smitten with Robert as the latter was with her.

"Robert did well in the melee, yes." Lyanna said. "He defeated many foes, including his old teacher, Jon Arryn."

Rhaegar raised his silvery-blonde brows. "And so the pupil bests the very hand that taught him," he said with a smirk.

Lyanna nodded, and they continued their dance. Rhaegar was an excellent dancer; he had spent two days when he was thirteen locked in his room poring over steps and trying until his feet ached.

Lyanna's dark northern hair waved gently around her temples in the slipstream of their dance, and Rhaegar couldn't help but notice. Defined cheekbones, a perfect nose, and full, red lips made up her face. The daughter of Winterfell had piercing blue eyes that could stake the soul, framed contrastingly in long, delicate lashes.

Lyanna looked up from the place where she had found Robert in the crowd, half in his cups and half into a song, to meet Rhaegar's eyes.

Caught mid-stare, Rhaegar smiled abashedly.

Lyanna smiled herself, and gave Rhaegar an approving glance of her own. The smile that stretched her full lips was filled with mischief.

"And you, Prince Targaryen?" she asked innocently. "How did you fare in today's events?"

"Well. I unhorsed Lord Royce this morning. I believe it was at the same time as the m—" Rhaegar broke off, seeing Lyanna smile broadly.

"What are you laughing at?" He inquired curiously, slightly awed by the gleam of her white teeth, set like pearls into her mouth.

Lyanna stuck her chin at him, and made her tone mockingly condescending. "Of course you won, Lord Prince of Dragonstone!"

Rhaegar widened his eyes. "Are you implying that Lord Royce let me win?"

The Stark woman grinned devilishly, at that moment reminding Rhaegar very much of the direwolf her house was symbolized by.

"Royce and every other jouster that you've faced." She answered. "Have you ever lost a tilt, Prince?"

Rhaegar thought back a few years, realizing that since he had learned to joust, he had seldom lost a match.

"My father beat me once." Rhaegar said, saving face.

Lyanna laughed, a rich, luring sound, and Rhaegar found himself drawing closer to her unconsciously.

"And all this time, I suppose you thought you were the finest horseman in Westeros, didn't you?" Lyanna mocked him playfully.

Rhaegar could not seem to keep himself from smiling at Lyanna and her humors, even though they were at his expense.

"You have not seen me joust, lady. I am indeed the best in the realm, you'll see."

"And what makes you think that I will watch you?" Lyanna asked indignantly. "I think I would choose instead to watch my betrothed in the melee over you, Prince or not."

"Ah, but you will pick me. I'm near as sure of that as the mournful moon above our heads."

Lyanna raised a dark eyebrow. "However do you know?"

Rhaegar smiled, and knowingly raised an eyebrow. "Well, we're still dancing, aren't we?"

And they were. Rhaegar and Lyanna still twirled and moved on the dance floor, amid different couples than had previously been there. The dance that had initially put them together had changed; the song had switched to a sadder, sweeter melody. Her two brothers and Elia were nowhere to be seen.

Lyanna stopped moving entirely and slid out of Rhaegar's arms.

"My lady?" he asked, confused.

Lyanna looked embarrassed for a moment before she spoke, but then grew angry.

"It's not exactly appropriate, is it?" The rhetorical rushed out of her mouth into the air.

Rhaegar creased his brow. "Dancing is hardly cause for moral qualms, Lady Lyanna."

"In this case it is." Lyanna looked down at Rhaegar's hands that still held hers softly.

"You're a crown prince, recently married and expecting your first heir. I am newly betrothed."

Rhaegar searched her eyes, trying to find any regret in them, of which he could see none.

"And yet we dance." He stated.

"And yet, we danced." Lyanna corrected.

Lyanna Stark loosened her grip in Rhaegar's hands and moved to turn away, to go back to Robert who was drinking even more wine.

But Rhaegar tightened his hold on her hands and silently drew her back to him.

Then, for the second time that day, he placed his lips tenderly against the skin of her hand and kissed her. Her skin was soft, and she smelled of winter roses, a fact he hadn't noticed before then. Bowing his head over her fingers, he let his lips brush briefly over them before he let go.

Lyanna Stark sighed and walked away, leaving Rhaegar Targaryen partnerless in the middle of the dancefloor.


	2. Chapter 2

Morning at Harrenhal dawned swift, bright, and too soon for Rhaegar's likes. He rolled out of the gargantuan bed that House Whent had provided him, careful not to wake Elia, and walked over to the window.

Taking a moment for his eyes to adjust after he threw open the shutters, Rhaegar drew his robe tighter around him. If Harrenhal was anything, it was cold and dark.

The grounds were already being prepped for the joust, melee, and archery contests. As the sun hung low in the sky, rising steadily, Rhaegar was reminded of the dragons.

The fame of the Targaryen House, the last dragon had died a hundred years before he was born. Rhaegar thought that he would know one though, if he came across one within miles. Sometimes he felt calm, deadly, and ready to strike. Other times he felt ancient, studious, and sour. Rhaegar felt like the young man of twenty-two that he was, but knew that that his soul bore many faces.

Rhaegar shut the curtains and drew away from them. Reaching under the bed where Elia slept soundly, he pulled out his harp. Carved of grey stone and strung with finely pounded steel wire, the instrument was as graceful as it was useful.

Elia's sleeping form drew his eyes. His wife slept in a ball, arms and legs curled protectively around the small bulge of her belly. Elia's health had always been fragile, and many of the master's worried about how the pregnancy would affect her.

Rhaegar could not believe that the pregnancy would cause Elia any ill will. Though slight and willowy, Elia was determined when she wanted to be.

The prince walked out onto the balcony overlooking the tourney grounds. He could see the axe-throwers setting up their area off in the distance, closer to the Gods Eye than anyone else.

Out even farther, Rhaegar could barely see the smudge of The Isle of Faces, a mystical place in which the heart-trees of the Old Gods were carved in great number.

In King's Landing, the Old Gods were not thought of, and the smallfolk worshipped the Seven. One of the only regions that still worshipped the Old Gods was the north.

They would be Lyanna's gods, he realized.

Rhaegar had not seen her since the dancing and feasting last night, after she spoke so bluntly and strode away.

Maybe their dancing had been inappropriate, he realized later in bed. Because staring at Elia with his head on the pillows, he could not help but wish that her skin was paler, eyes were bluer, face was longer, and lips fuller.

The rising sun seemed to pull Rhaegar's fingers to his strings, and as he mounted the harp on his knee, music found its way from his heart into the air around him.

Rhaegar could hear the notes echoing off the castle walls around him, haunting the walls of Harrenhal with serene melody. Rhaegar had never played the song before, and he doubted that, if asked to, he would be able to recreate it.

Many of Rhaegar's more beautiful pieces came from what felt like his soul, and would never be heard again. When Rhaegar would take weeks, months, away from King's lading at a time to go explore the ruins of Summerhall, he would take only his harp and horse. The old crones that lived around the ruins would hear him playing in the night and gather to watch, eager for a glimpse of life in the ruins.

As his finger's moved more swiftly, Rhaegar noticed the development of a small gathering beneath his balcony. He folded himself back into the stone, so that the angle would not permit him to be seen by their searching eyes.

Music should be listened to for its own qualities, not because it was played by a prince.

The thought made Rhaegar remember Lyanna Stark and her implications that he had been allowed to coast through any contest or adversary that he had ever faced. The thought made him angry, an almost unwillingly his long fingers found thicker strings, deeper notes, to carry the underlying harmony.

The figurehead carved on his harp was wrought in the same silvery-grey stone. A woman, poised in a flowing robe, graced the side of his harp. She and her gown were bequeathed in fire, as respect to his Targaryen heritage.

Rhaegar saw jousters that had to tilt soon lining up. Rhaegar's next bout was not until the next morning; in a massive, ten-day tourney, the jousting was spaced out accordingly.

Off in the near distance, a tent with a direwolf flap rustled. Rhaegar watched as Brandon, Ned, Benjen, and Lyanna made their way out of it and into the bright light.

In colors unusually found on Starks, the siblings dressed in light finery. Ned wore a green doublet, lined with gold, Brandon had a similar one of blue and black, embroidered with the snarling direwolf of House Stark.

Lyanna wore a yellow muslin dress, cut low to reveal pale skin that seemed to reflect the sunlight of early morning. Rhaegar was freezing, sitting in his bedclothes, and was astonished that Lyanna did not show signs of being chilled.

A true northern woman, he thought, as his fingers slowed on the strings.

The melody that he wrought from the harp became slow and daring, harsh yet gentle at the same time.

Lyanna and her brothers made their way over to the Baratheon tent, where a slightly hungover Robert appeared moments later.

He moved to kiss his betrothed on the cheek, and she conceded gracefully, though Rhaegar could not help but notice how her posture leaned away from The Lord of Storm's End.

Hearing the music with what were no doubt sensitive ears, Robert looked around for the source. Seeing Rhaegar from his less steep angle than the listener's below, Robert grabbed Ned by the shoulder and pointed.

The second brother of Winterfell had not missed much, Rhaegar thought. Ned had looked up at him almost the instant that he stepped out of his tent.

As the Starks and Robert headed into Harrenhal to eat with the rest of the high houses, Rhaegar ceased his playing. A disappointed groan went up from the crowd he had gathered at the suddenly cut off song.

Lyanna Stark was not immune to the sudden cessation of music either. From the ground, she looked up at the balcony where Rhaegar sat, brows raised curiously. She smiled, a sight that Rhaegar had been wary of never seeing again since the previous night.

He felt the lines on the outsides of his eyes crinkle, a sure sign that he was smiling on the inside, and nodded back at Lyanna.

Rhaegar began to hear Elia stir inside their chambers, so he went back into the room, playing his part as the ever dutiful husband.

*Break*

Around ten o' clock, Rhaegar decided to explore Harrenhal and the surrounding area. He had never been to the region, and felt that as a future king, he should get to know it better.

First, Rhaegar took a tour of the castle with Elia, led by one of Lord Whent's sons, who had lost his jousting bout the day before and was wallowing in shame inside.

When they reached the highest tower in the castle, Rhaegar looked up curiously at the smoke-stains of dragonfire that still adornished the tower.

"The curse of a purse as large as Lord Harren was round, in enemies he thought not to look above the ground." Rhaegar whispered lyrically to Elia.

Elia gave him a playful shove. "Like you would have thought of dragons at the time."

Their tour took them to the royal bedchambers, the kitchens, the great hall, and even the vast wine cellars below the kitchen.

Lord Whent's son allowed Rhaegar to take a bottle of Dornish red, with the promise that it would grace his wineskin on the morrow.

A tour of the grounds would have been in order, but most of Harrenhal's yards were covered by tourney equipment as the day progressed.

Around noon, Elia spoke of being tired and so Rhaegar escorted her back to their rooms to take a nap. Rhaegar wanted to continue looking around alone, so he dismissed the Whent son and meandered by himself.

Grabbing his horse and saddling it, his trusty harp sitting in the saddlebag, Rhaegar set out for the God's Eye. Traveling through the congested foot traffic on horseback took time, and it was with a sigh that he found himself free of the crowd.

It was a short ride to the lake at a steady canter, so Rhaegar looked around at the scenery as he approached. The riverlands were flat and grassy; the coming spring seemed to brighten all the natural colors the eye could see.

Rhaegar reached the God's Eye and took a seat on a rock on the shoreline. Removing his boots and rolling up his trousers, Rhaegar stuck his pale toes in the water.

He closed his eyes lustfully and felt the warmth of the sun on his face. Rhaegar loved being alone, he had since birth.

Ever since he could remember, Rhaegar had found excuses to go off by himself and sit in comfortable solitude. He did not have the paranoia of his father, the fearful side of his mother, nor the recklessness of his young brother Viserys.

It was hard for a prince to be at ease with the world, a fact he had realized very young. There was seldom a person in the kingdom who did not want to use Rhaegar or his connections for their own gain.

Perhaps that was one of the things that fixated him about Lyanna Stark. She didn't want to use him, in fact, there were times Rhaegar thought she could care less about him.

_I loved a maiden as cold as winter, with snowstorms in her hair._ Rhaegar chuckled at his darker twist of the popular ballad.

He liked to sing about mistakes and tragedy, about things that were and things that would never be. Whether you were king, knight, smallfolk, Black Brother, or common whore, people could appreciate things that they had in common. He had found that the kingdom he stood to inherit needed a king that they could relate to, not just a stony heart on an iron chair.

Rhaegar was already more loved by the smallfolk than his father, Tywin Lannister, and Robert Baratheon combined. The thought made him crack a small grin.

Goosebumps began to raise on his legs that were not a product of the chilled lake water, and sure enough Rhaegar heard a branch snap behind him.

The Dragonstone Prince whirled around, picking up his harp and standing. About ten feet from him, a man of short stature was trying to make his way back to the tournament. The man's clothes were torn and his brown hair was frazzled, making him look a bit worse for wear.

Rhaegar straightened fully and called out to the small man. "Hello there!"

The man turned, and Rhaegar was confronted with the greenest pair of eyes he had ever seen. Sloppy brown hair did nothing to accent the man's features, making the startling orbs even more prominent.

"Prince Rhaegar!" the man exclaimed, bowing low in respect. The man's gait was limped and uneven; the bow seemed to be more uncomfortable than was let on.

Rhaegar lifted an eyebrow. He wasn't surprised the man had recognized him, for Rhaegar's Targaryen features were extremely obvious.

"Have I had the pleasure, good man?" Rhaegar asked cordially, propping his harp up against the rock at his feet.

The small man laughed. "Not since you were a babe in your mother's arms, and me a twenty something without a clue, Your Grace."

"That explains why I do not know your face, good ser. What are you called?"

"Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch, Prince." The older man replied.

Rhaegar nodded and gave a small bow of acknowledgement. "Are you in good health, ser? You seem to be shaky."

Howland Reed's green eyes darkened momentarily, and he furrowed his brow. "I am well, Lord Prince." The crannogman drew in a deep breath. "I am growing older every moment, I fear the years are not with me as they once were."

"Would you like a ride back to the castle?" Rhaegar asked. "I could have a horse sent to fetch you."

Howland smiled. "That is very kind, prince. Forgive me that I do not take the invitation, I would prefer to walk."

Rhaegar nodded acceptingly, and watched the shorter man walk off into the fields for a good twenty paces before turning around.

"Excuse me prince, but if you were to pick a champion to fight for your own honor, what qualifications might that champion possess?" The Lord of Greywater Watch asked.

Rhaegar considered, thinking through his reply before giving response. "Well, seeing as they fight for your own honor, I would say someone who is passionate about your cause. Someone who feels, no, _knows,_ that you have been wronged."

"It should be someone that you know to be fair, and that will uphold the high standards of honor that you do. Someone ferocious, yet gentle at the same time, my lord."

Howland smiled. "And of their status, prince?"

"Probably should be below your own," Rhaegar said. "Seeing as they are your champion implies that they are in your service."

"I thank you, Prince Rhaegar. Until we meet again."

The crannogman, seeming to consider Rhaegar's words, nodded and walked away leaving Rhaegar with the realization that he had not thought to ask why the man needed a champion in the first place.

*break*

As Rhaegar was wandering slowly back to Harrenhal on his horse, the sun setting to the west, he came across another unexpected visitor.

The thundering of hooves on his right was the only give away of her presence before a snowy white stallion galloped past. On its back was a blur of yellow muslin and dark, waving hair, let loose of its pins.

"Lyanna!" Rhaegar yelled after her, spurring his horse into a run.

Her horse slowed to a stop a quarter mile away as she waited for him to catch up.

As he neared her, he was struck again by her beauty. The sun backlit her features, throwing sunlight into her hair and illuminating streaks of red he hadn't noticed were there. Her teeth glowed like beacons as she smiled at him.

"What are you doing out here, Lady Lyanna?" he asked incredulously.

Lyanna looked at him and smiled again, showing off perfect dimples. "Riding, prince, what does it look like?"

"You, on a horse four times your size, out all alone….And without a coat or any warmth." Rhaegar had noticed her shoulders and the tops of her breasts spilling out over her yellow muslin as he drew his mount side-by-side to hers.

She scoffed in his face. "If you think a woman of Winterfell is going to catch a chill from this climate, Prince, you are mistaken." She grinned. "The sun is my fireplace, the breeze my blankets, and the grasses are my mattress. I'm warmer here than I was bundled in my bedchamber at home."

Rhaegar had to admit, he saw the sense in her words. "And of the horse? The solitude?"

Lyanna bent down and kissed the stallion between his ears. "Good old Jon here wouldn't hurt a fly." She reached over to pat Rhaegar's own horse. "And I come out here by myself to think. Or to explore."

"Won't your betrothed be concerned for your safety?" Rhaegar asked.

"I don't need a nanny. Bringing my damned septa to the tournament was bad enough!" Lyanna's tone grew hot and angry, but Rhaegar couldn't help but laughing at her words and the expression on her face.

"Stop pouting, lady. I was only curious. And isn't having a septa who is damned a bit ironic?" Rhaegar laughed as Lyanna grinned again.

"None of them can keep up with me, anyways." Lyanna stated simply.

Rhaegar raised a brow. "It's uncommon for a Westerosi woman to be a horsewoman." He pointed out jokingly. "Are you sure you aren't part Dothraki?"

Lyanna's face grew serious, but he could see deep mirth hiding in her eyes.

"Why don't we see if I am, Prince Rhaegar? We'll have a race." She raised a slender eyebrow. "I promise I won't let you win."

Rhaegar leaned into her until their faces were only inches apart. "I promise you Lyanna, riding is not something that I need to cheat at," he whispered under his breath.

Lyanna boldly leaned even closer into him, and Rhaegar could smell the scent of the rose perfume she wore in her hair.

"Where shall we race to, prince?" She said seriously. "The less-likely winner can pick the course."

Rhaegar looked around to consider and clear his head of Lyanna's presence.

"To the God's Eye and back?" Rhaegar suggested.

Lyanna frowned. "That is a very short course in which you might prove your prowess, Prince."

Rhaegar smiled. "The best songs are wrenchingly sad, the shortest are bitterly sweet, and those that are both are the best to be had."

"To the Eye and back it is." Lyanna conceded. "Do you always speak lyrics, Prince Rhaegar?"

"Yes, Lady Lyanna. Do you always ask questions?"

Lyanna smiled widely. "Only when I want to distract someone," she said, and spurred her horse into a gallop for the lake.

Rhaegar swore. "Lyanna!" he yelled after her, thundering over the grass himself. "Did Winterfell win its seat by cheating?"

Turning in her saddle, Lyanna yelled back. "Do Targaryens win their battles by letting others make the first move?" she retorted.

Rhaegar drew closer, bending down in his saddle and letting the wind move over him. The clods of dirt from her white stallion nearly hit him in the face as he drew closer still.

"Is this the same prince that triumphed at the joust?" Lyanna mocked. "For right now he looks much like a fool!"

Rhaegar urged his mount on until he and Lyanna were neck and neck.

"You may be a good rider, Lady." Rhaegar said loudly. "But I think I am better still."

They were swiftly approaching the God's Eye, and Rhaegar saw a place where he could turn around and not lose too much speed. He headed for it, but Lyanna had had the same idea and followed. As he was about to make the turn, she whipped her hair into around, and Rhaegar was lost in a sea of mahogany locks as they flew into his eyes.

The next thing he knew, his horse was no longer moving, but Rhaegar was flying.

Flying, and then falling, and then thudding into the ground so hard that he couldn't breathe.

Rhaegar rolled around in the dirt before settling onto his back and staring up at the sky with unfocused eyes. Running a hand through his disheveled hair, Rhaegar groaned and laughed at the same time in disbelief.

His ringing ears managed to pick up the sounds of hooves returning on his left, and the next thing he knew, Lyanna was kneeling on the ground next to him, trying to contain her laughter.

"So that's what it feels like to be unhorsed." Rhaegar moaned sarcastically.

His head was comfortable, pillowed in her lap, and Lyanna cupped his face with a soft hand. Her blue-grey eyes looked him over, trying to search him for injuries even as her grin betrayed mirth.

"I've seen birds in the sky look less graceful, my prince." Lyanna said. "You soar very well."

Rhaegar groaned again as he laughed at himself because laughing hurt his sure-to-be-bruised body.

"Do you think that Aerys would mind if I denounced myself and became Prince of the Dirt?" Rhaegar asked wittily. "The singers would tell songs of the man who knew two shames: flying from his mount and being bested by a lady at a manly contest."

"Ah, there, there," Lyanna soothed, unknowingly running her fingers through his silvery hair. "Even the best singers could not hold a candle to this lady at anything."

Rhaegar quirked up an eyebrow, to find that even that took more effort than it should. "You could best the singers? Even at singing?" Rhaegar challenged.

Lyanna considered. "If I had any music, perhaps."

"I can help with that, at least." Rhaegar said. "Will you fetch me my harp?"

Lyanna rose, and Rhaegar adjusted his position so that he sat cross-legged in the grass. She sat to face him when she returned with the instrument in her hands.

Rhaegar fit his fingers to the strings and looked at her curiously. "Is there any particular tune that you wish to hear?"

Lyanna pursed her lips and shook her head delicately. "Play whatever is in your heart, prince."

Rhaegar nodded, and then began to move his fingers over the strings and play. The melody that burst forth from his harp was a variation of the one that had that morning, intermixed with notes from his day by the lake and something entirely new.

The song he played for Lyanna _was_ Lyanna. In the best way that Rhaegar knew how to communicate, he described her. The song was more of what made Lyanna Stark than the snows at Winterfell, for the song contained them too. Her family, fierce and proud, flew out of his fingers like the wind, but those notes were soon replaced by the gentle bridge that was her hair, her skin, her heart. The melody of her personality was fast-moving and offbeat, but it fit the rest perfectly. In the underlying harmony of the song lay the darker parts of Lyanna. There lay Robert, there lay Brandon in all of his overbearance.

The song that was Lyanna would have made the court ladies weep and the crones of Summerhall worship.

When Rhaegar slowed his fingers on the strings and then stopped entirely, his muse met his eyes.

"Don't stop." She pleaded softly. "It's so beautiful."

Rhaegar smiled sadly, and raised his hand. He tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear and kept his hand on her cheek, cupping her face in his palm.

"It is beautiful," Rhaegar said with a pang of epiphany. "It is."

Lyanna pressed her cheek into his palm tenderly, and Rhaegar caught his breath. The nearly overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms consumed him, and Rhaegar gripped his harp harder with one hand.

If he set it aside, he was lost.

Running a thumb gently along her lower lip, Rhaegar sighed, withdrawing his hand.

Lyanna looked at him serenely. "I shouldn't feel this comfortable with you." She stated.

Rhaegar nodded. "No. You shouldn't."

"But I don't care." Lyanna's eyes blazed blue fire, and he couldn't look away.

"You should."

They locked eyes, feeling the other people in their lives in between them. Rhaegar could nearly see Elia and his unborn son in front of him, and beyond them he could see Robert and all of Lyanna's brothers lined up, protecting her. Most of all, the weight of his kingdom pressed against Rhaegar's shoulders. From Casterly Rock to the Sunspear, he could feel them.

Her reply was heart-breakingly simple.

"I know."

Then Lyanna got back on her stallion and rode away from him, taking her ghosts with her, and once again leaving him alone.

*break*


	3. Chapter 3

Morning at Harrenhal yet again dawned bright and loud, tearing Rhaegar form his dreams in which Lyanna Stark featured heavily.

Elia rolled over in their bed to face him, her hair mussed and eyes bleary. Rhaegar planted an unfeeling kiss on her forehead, lips barely moving. The woman that was his wife felt like an alien; someone who he could not relate to, someone he could not feel for.

Rhaegar was sickened with himself, that his duty had been so overshadowed by another.

When his squire came to fetch him moments later, Rhaegar rolled out of bed with fierce determination. All of his focus would lay in the joust he had today, and he would not allow himself to be distracted by the woman who frequented his mind.

An hour later, Rhaegar found himself on the lists, tightening his riding gloves around his wrists. For the joust, Rhaegar bound back his shoulder length hair with a leather strap to keep it from his eyes.

Mounting his horse, Rhaegar's squire handed up his helm. Rhaegar settled it over his eyes, looking through the slits as he scanned the crowd. Most of them were watching him; Rhaegar made a fine sight in his red tinted armor, matching black dragon helm, and metallic silver cape.

The other half of the crowd, however, was watching his opponent.

Brandon Stark had just rode into the lists, adorned in the steely grey armor and white helm of Winterfell. A black cloak embroidered with the hounds of Winterfell was draped around Brandon's shoulders.

Rhaegar narrowed his eyes through the slits in his helm and continued to scan the crowd. He half didn't expect her to be there, for the melee was taking place this morning too, and her Robert would be in it.

A bigger par t of Rhaegar knew she would be there watching him, for she was a curious one, and would want to sort out the strange feelings he knew she had felt by the lake.

And sure enough, as he scanned the people above Brandon on the Stark side, he saw her. His winter rose. She covered her face in pale blue gauze fabric, trying to keep the sun off of her Stark-pale face.

Rhaegar's heart leapt and his fingers itched for his harp, for they still remembered the song that was her. He found himself smiling widely underneath his helm, and was glad for its protection from wandering eyes. At least Elia was feeling to ill to attend.

The herald blew his horn, and the din of people fell to a soft whisper. Rhaegar sat up straighter.

"Welcome, to the third day of the Tournament at Harrenhal ever graciously provided for by Lord Whent of Harrenhal. This marks the second day of the joust, the thirteenth tilt, and the final qualifying round." The herald's voice rang above the crowd of people.

"To the jousters!" he continued. "On the northern side, we have Ser Brandon of House Stark, Heir to the seat of Winterfell."

Brandon rode out into the middle of the lists and removed his helm so that the crowd could see his face. As a northern favorite, Brandon received a hearty cheer from his fans. Lyanna rose to her feet and clapped, yelling his name. Ned sat next to her, always the stoic, and clapped slowly.

"On the southern side," the herald continued. "We have Ser Rhaegar of House Targaryen, Prince of the Dragonstone, and Heir to the Seven Kingdoms and the Iron Throne."

Rhaegar trotted out onto the pitch and met Brandon in the middle. Taking off him helm, Rhaegar's ears were assaulted with the cheering of his loyal subjects. Women waved at him and leaned over the rail to be closer. Children in the crowd had dragons painted on their cheeks in homage. Lyanna was still standing, clapping, and looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

He could practically read the thoughts that were going through her head.

_Brandon will not let you win,_ said her smirk.

The opponents nodded at each other, shook hands, and moved to the respective ends.

As Rhaegar waited at the south end of the list, he realized an irony. They were not just at the north and south ends of the pitch, but they were a northerner and a southerner themselves. The north versus the south, Rhaegar scoffed.

Equipped with his lance, a straight, black, heavy object with a dragon tail grip, Rhaegar faced Brandon. He realized that the horse Brandon sat on was the horse Lyanna had ridden the day before. The thought made him smile at her daring.

The joker with the flag ran to the middle of the lists, dropped it, ad then scurried away.

Rhaegar spurred his stallion into a gallop, directly at the oncoming Brandon. He leveled his lance, lining the point up with Brandon Stark's left shoulder.

The rider got closer, and Brandon leveled his own lance. Rhaegar braced himself for the hit, gathering his center of gravity low in his belly.

The lances smashed off their respective armor, both splintering, and wood fragments flew in all directions.

The crowd roared, both sides encouraging their contestants. Rhaegar reached the other end of the pitch and shook out his shoulder. Both men had tried the same target, trying to force the other into an early dismount.

The jousting saddles had high backs to keep the riders in place. Rhaegar had found that there were three ways to win a joust: hit high, to try and unbalance the opponent into falling, hit low, to try to pop the opponent out of the saddle like prying the meat from a Dornish oyster, or hit hard, and simply overpower your opponent.

The judges deliberated, and eventually one flag was erected on both Rhaegar and Brandon's sides.

His squire handed him another lance, and then the flag was dropped for the second pass.

This time, Rhaegar did not make his horse gallop full out, trying to let Brandon's speed work against him. Rhaegar leveled his lance and aimed low at Brandon's belly.

When the inevitable hit came, Rhaegar leaned into it, taking a harder hit himself, but allowing his lance to gain leverage against Brandon.

Brandon's lanced glanced off Rhaegar's abdomen, but Rhaegar's shattered against the Stark and sent him reeling as he recovered from the hit.

When they reached the opposite ends, another flag was erected under Rhaegar's shield.

The winner was the first to five flags, or points, or the first to unhorse the other.

Rhaegar found Lyanna in the crowd, clapping lightly. Ned was straight-faced next to her, looking off into the distance, seeming not to care about his brother's joust before him.

The two heirs took a pass at each other again, and yet again, both hit the same target. However, this time, Brandon's lance shattered hard against Rhaegar's breastplate, sending shrapnel everywhere. Rhaegar's lance deflected off when Bradon turned in the saddle in contact.

A flag was erected underneath the Stark direwolf.

The third pass went to Brandon again, when he caught Rhaegar carrying his weight high in his chest. The lances both shattered, but Rhaegar was saved from flying only by his saddle, and so Brandon won the flag.

As they set up for the fourth pass, Rhaegar saw Lyanna in the stands, a smug look on her face. She had the personality that wanted to be right always, and she saw what she wanted in reach.

The men charged at each other. Rhaegar crouched down, being sure to not repeat his mistake. Once again he hit low, trying to pry Brandon away from his mount. Once again, the men had the same idea.

Rhaegar took Brandon's hit to the gut, and then closed his eyes as to avoid the splinters of wood. From his lance or Brandon's, he could not tell. They had both shattered.

Both of the sigils were awarded a flag for the fourth pass, leaving the score four to three. Brandon's lead was too close for Rhaegar's liking.

The fifth pass was dead quiet as the crowd watched. Unbeknownst to Rhaegar, Lyanna sat on the edge of her chair, gripping the handles with white-knuckles.

They faced each other, and watched the flag drop. Rhaegar spurred his stallion into an automatic gallop, trying to hit as hard as he could. The men neared each other, and Rhaegar knew then that his horse was traveling faster than Brandon's.

As he drew nearer and leveled his lance, Rhaegar saw his opportunity. Brandon leaned too far forward in his saddle, eagerly leveling his lance. Rhaegar sat back in his saddle, keeping his gravity low, then struck high.

On contact, Rhaegar leaned forward, driving all of his weight into Brandon as the latter frantically tried to compensate.

One instant, a smashed lance, and a crunching thud later, it was over.

Rhaegar turned his horse around to the cheers of the crowd, and dropped his lance into the dirt. Yards away, Brandon was struggling to him feet as his horse ran circles around the lists.

The herald blew his horn, and Rhaegar was declared the winner of the thirteenth joust, eliminating Brandon Stark.

Rhaegar missed most of this though, for his eyes were glued to a certain young woman in the crowd.

Lyanna's brows were raised in recognition, and she nodded her head at him in respect, frowning surprisedly.

_Well met, Prince,_ she mouthed at him.

Rhaegar grinned widely and yanked off his helm to face the crowd. He stayed in the lists until Brandon was back on his feet, and then rode off to the stables to groom his tired horse.

*break*

Later that night, the moonlight pouring through the bay window of Rhaegar and Elia's suite bored into Rhaegar's eyes. He tossed and turned for a few moments, trying to adjust himself.

Elia was curled next to him, slender arms wrapped around her swollen abdomen. The light hit her features just so that her skin looked translucent and pale. The child was taking the light and life out of his golden Dornish princess, leaving her tired and drawn.

The light once again invaded Rhaegar's purple eyes and he threw his pillow over his head, cursing. The down-feathered thing helped block most of the bright light, but now Rhaegar was fully awake.

He remembered an old legend that a crone at Summerhall had told him once, how there had once been two moons, each shining as brightly as the other. One night, however, a moon had drawn too close to the sun, and the heat had cracked it open, releasing the first dragons onto the earth.

Rhaegar pulled on a robe over his nightclothes and left the bedchamber. He made his way through the castle, nodding at the curious gazes of the servants that caught his eye. Rhaegar knew that they thought that he was peculiar, but he didn't care.

As he reached the stables, he thought of the second part of his memory. When he had returned from Summerhall with the old crone's tale fresh on his lips, Rhaegar had rushed to his father's chambers and told him.

As a boy of twelve, Rhaegar had been surprised when Aerys struck him brutally across the face with nails that neared four inches long. The king had yelled himself hoarse at Rhaegar, telling him how he was wrong, how dragons had really come from the volcanoes of old Valayria.

Rhaegar had run from his father's chambers crying into the arms of his mother, who fetched a septa to heal him scar-free for a high price. It was the first of many times that his mother would pay out of pocket to cover the blows that Aerys would inflict on his eldest son.

Riding towards the jousting lists, Rhaegar could hear all of the blows that Aerys had inflicted on him echoing in his mind.

_Slap… Whack…Thud… Slap… _

He could vividly remember the burning ache of the blows that lasted long after a healing.

_Slap… Thud…Thud… _

"SLAP… Thud... Thud… Chink!" The blows had become real, and Rhaegar could see a figure in the middle of the lists, ravaging a quintain with a practice sword.

In the intense moonlight, Rhaegar could see bright gleams reflecting off gentle waves of mahogany hair. He could see that the figure was slender and slight. He could tell that the sword was heavier than the person was used to, making the blows slower and clumsier than they would have been.

And when the figure groaned in frustration, hurled the sword at the dummy's feet, and turned around, Rhaegar saw to be true what he already k knew.

"Lyanna?"

She whirled around, eyes blazing furiously. As he drew closer, he could tell that something was off about her face.

As soon as he was close enough that she could see the curiosity on his countenance, she turned away from him and gathered the dull practice blade from the ground.

"Lyanna," he spoke again.

She ignored him, and began whacking at the dummy with renewed energy.

"Lyanna?" he inquired more softly, placing a hand on her shoulder. "What's wrong?"

Luckily, Rhaegar knew what she would do before she did it. Her body gave her away, the way it tensed under his hand right before she swung around the sword with all her might.

He caught her wrist before she could strike him, and trapped her close to his body. He squeezed her wrist until she let go with a dismayed grunt, dropping the blade to the ground.

He could feel his brow furrow in concern. Lyanna would not look at him, holding her face down towards the ground. In the silence of the night, the only sound that could be heard was her labored breathing.

Rhaegar slowly brought the tips of his fingers underneath her chin and drug it up, trying to look into the flashing grey eyes that would not meet his.

When he saw her face, all of Rhaegar's breath left him in a huff.

Lyanna would not look at him head-on, but it was enough. Jaw set stubbornly, she looked away from him, eyes dark. The moonlight revealed what she was trying to hide from him in full view.

The pale skin of her face was marred by a huge purplish bruise on one cheekbone that ran from under her eye and managed to touch both her nose and ear. Rhaegar could see the vague outlines of fingerprints that feathered across the bruise.

A fire awakened in Rhaegar, something that he felt deep in his stomach that slowly spread through his whole being.

"Who?" he asked darkly.

Lyanna would not answer him, but he noticed her jaw begin to tremble under his fingers. He let go, and stepped back slightly, though he still held her wrists.

"Will you not tell me?" he asked, trying to keep the emotion he felt out of his voice.

Lyanna looked at him for the first time, eyes wide and vulnerable like a passage deep into her soul.

"You must already know." She mumbled softly. "How could you not?"

"Robert." Rhaegar said, unassuming.

She nodded gently, and Rhaegar reached out to touch her, to comfort her. Lyanna however, withdrew violently, her gaze accusing.

"And it's your fault!" she hurled at him across the small space that separated them.

Her words rendered Rhaegar speechless, and he drew back, astonished, only to have her come flying at him with her fists thrashing.

"It is your fault!" she screamed again, hitting his chest repeatedly. "All your fault! You didn't have to win that joust!"

She hit him over and over again, and the Prince of Dragonstone stood there and let her pound blows into his chest. Unlike Robert, he would never hit a lady.

"Lyanna, if I have wronged you…" he managed to get out, trying to absorb her fury.

She groaned in frustration, and sank sobbing against him. It was all he could do to wrap his arms and hold her against him before she managed to sink all the way to the ground.

Lyanna clutched him, sobbing into his neck painfully. Rhaegar again stood there and let her work herself through it, rubbing calm circles into her back. As they stood there for moments more, he pressed his lips into her dark hair and made soothing noises into her ear gently.

It didn't take long for Lyanna to cry herself out, and when she did, she stood in his embrace peacefully.

Rhaegar reveled in the moment, savoring the feel of holding her in his arms. The moonlight that shone around them took on a beautiful tinge that made him sleepy.

When Lyanna pressed her face tenderly into his throat they both sighed gently. However, Rhaegar could not contain his concern for long.

"Lyanna," he murmured against her hair. "Darling, will you tell me what happened to you?"

She stopped breathing and drew back so that they could look into each other's faces. Any other time Rhaegar would have found it difficult to look away from the bruise that spanned her cheek, but her tears had matted her dark eyelashes together in an entrancing way.

"After you won the joust today," she began slowly. "Robert lost two-thousand dragons on Brandon. I didn't see him afterwards, but Ned told me that Robert had headed to a winesink in the castle."

"Apparently a great loss of money sends even _great _men to taverns and whores." Lyanna said softly, with so much vehemence that Rhaegar's skin prickled.

"So I went back to our tent and to bed. I thought nothing of it: I had heard that Robert liked his wine and ale, and I had seen him drunk many times before. However, I forgot to factor in that he had never been truly drunk around me prior to tonight."

Lyanna set her jaw and looked into Rhaegar's eyes hard.

"And let me tell you, prince. Being awoken by the crushing weight of the dashing Robert Baratheon on top of you, as naked as his name day and drunk as a dog is not the fairytale that singers and young girls would have you believe."

"His breath was sickening, and I felt like I would get drunk just from breathing in his fumes. I felt like I would be squashed to death by his weight."

Rhaegar realized he was clenching his teeth together so tight that they could have cracked.

Lyanna continued. "And so he was on me, pawing at me, trying to rip off my nightdress and force me onto him, Rhaegar. He tried to take me for his own then, somehow thinking that if he slurred '"Lyanna, hush, hush. Everything is fine,"' enough times into my ears I would believe him."

Lyanna shivered, and Rhaegar drew her in closer, so close that their noses nearly touched. So close that when she spoke again, Rhaegar could taste the rose perfume she wore.

"I hit him. I clawed at him, I kicked at him, and I screamed at him. I bit him so hard that his ear bled through and he roared at me like the boar he is." She shook her head, and the motion made a tangle of their hair that lay between them.

"He hit me, that's when I got the bruise. So I ran, faster than I thought I could, but he was faster. The only way that I got away was that he stumbled over something and lost me in that dark."

Rhaegar took one hand and gently stroked her cheek, leaving the other wrapped tightly around her waist.

"So it isn't truly my fault, then?" Rhaegar asked quietly.

She laughed a sad, ironic laugh. "No, prince. It isn't."

Rhaegar was relieved that she had acknowledged it, for he hadn't liked being the object if her hatred.

She sighed. "I blamed you just now irrationally. What woman wants to admit that she will be forced to marry a brute who drunkenly tries to mount her in the dark?"

Rhaegar smirked, even though the serious moment did not require it. "And so you blamed the innocent in your blinding tears? Do not fret; conquerors have been doing the same for years."

Lyanna shook her head and smiled at him. "I was right about you, prince. You do always speak in lyrics."

Rhaegar returned her grin slowly. "Only when I have inspiration, Lyanna."

"Do you have any now, Rhaegar?"

And as she gazed up at him, Rhaegar felt inspired. He loved the way that her name rolled off his tongue, and when she said his own name, she made him love it. Coming from her lips, his name was the most precious thing in the world. He felt like he could write an entire ballad just about her eyes that stared into his. He craved the way that she fit snugly into his arms like she did now.

She was a perfect fit for his arms, and as the realization dawned on him, his heart. Whether or not she had intended to, whether or not he had wanted it, Lyanna had wriggled her way into his heart, his soul.

And that feeling was beautiful, glorious, wondrous, and consuming.

The air between them changed, and Rhaegar could feel a nearly tangible current run through the air. There lay wrenching electricity between them, enough to make a man fall to his knees and plead for her.

She blinked slowly, and he knew she could feel it too.

"Rhaegar," she groaned softly.

They gravitated towards each other, attracting like magnets.

"Yes?" His heart was racing, arms tightening around her waist.

They were inhaling the same air, breath mingling warmly.

"Inspire me." She whispered against his lips.

Rhaegar could take it no longer, and he let his desire through. Their mouths met, lips pressing flush against one another, seeking passionately.

Lyanna drew back slightly and smiled against his mouth wickedly. They crashed together again, his hands exploring her back and tightening in her long hair. Her arms wrapped around his neck as she pulled herself closer.

Rhaegar was extremely aware of every curve of her body that he crushed against him, from her hips that changed to slender waist that gave way to soft, full breasts.

He tugged her lower lip with his teeth, making her moan against him. She tilted her head back and he moved to kiss her neck, eliciting soft noises from her throat that made his heart stop in response.

He backed her against the dummy that she had been hacking so viscously. The quintain held her to him, leaving Rhaegar's hands to explore Lyanna. He traced his hands over her eyebrows and the bruise on her face. He ran his lips along her jawline. She held his face to her chest as he kissed her collarbone tenderly. Rhaegar ran his hands over her breasts and then buried them in her hair.

How long they stood there, Rhaegar couldn't have said. It could have been mere moments or a whole lifetime.

The next thing he knew, the sun was shining in their eyes as it crested the horizon. They broke off their kisses, and Rhaegar squinted against the bright orange light of the sunrise.

To Rhaegar, the sun was a perfect adaptation of what he felt in his heart. Never before had he loved anyone like he did Lyanna. Kissing Elia was not half of what he had just felt, and he doubted it ever would be.

The darker thought sobered him somewhat, and he felt an urge to get back to his chambers before the castle woke.

He felt Lyanna Stark smile against his neck. "Perphaps you should tell Robert that that is how one should be woken in the morning."

And with the sun pouring into his soul, Rhaegar Targaryen agreed.

*break*


End file.
